


Take

by ideal_girl (trainwreckdress)



Series: The Albion Rooms [3]
Category: The Libertines
Genre: Drug Use, Drugged Sex, Drugs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-10-06
Updated: 2004-10-06
Packaged: 2017-11-02 19:42:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/372674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trainwreckdress/pseuds/ideal_girl





	Take

The first time Carl got stoned it was thanks to his next-door neighbor's cousin, just in from Edinburgh.

Carl smoked the sweet-smelling spliff, coughed a bit and washed it down with some White Lightning, helpfully provided by his neighbor's older sister. She was cute, in that way everyone recognizes, so when she pressed her lips against his, it was normal to want to stick his tongue down her throat. So he did. And she moaned, and he quite liked that, and liked how his fingers felt against the flimsy material of her top.

So he pushed and prodded around until she pulled back, ripped the entire thing off her chest and over her head, leaving her hair a crown of static.

He doesn't remember much else after that, except for _"ah!"_ and _"there, no there!"_ and then not quite caring that he got spunk in her hair.

*

The first time Carl rolled, it was right after A-levels, and he was certain he bombed at _least_ one of them.

This girl he knew, the one he'd always known, from year one on, she had a couple of pills, offered them to him out in the hall. She'd just come off a rather harrowing history lesson, and there were red splotches on her neck, evidence of some illicit activity that Carl was only half-way aware of.

She handed him a plastic baggie, damp from her cleavage, two pills intact. He took one, swallowed it down with her spit, courtesy of her flicking tongue, and pushed the other one into her mouth with his grubby fingers.

They walked home, nearly hand in hand, but not quite, staring out, eyes wide and shoulders bumping tree trunks. He dropped her off at her front door, after staring at a roundabout for a bit, counting blue cars and calling out broken tail lights. She told him to be safe, to be careful, and not to worry about his marks. He told her he didn't care.

*

The first time Carl railed lines, it was in his cousin's bathroom, neat lines of white powder laid out on the sink.

The cocaine was shiny, and he wanted to touch it, but his cousin smacked his hand away, handing him a tightly folded bill instead. The Queen's face peaked out at him, colors merging as he leaned down, did what his cousin told him, press with your fingers, close your eyes, open your throat, suck it all in.

And he did, and for a second, he thought he did it wrong.

But then it was there, a flood of _something,_ up his head, into his sinuses, dripping down his throat. It shimmered down his chest, through his now-empty fingers (Dan had taken the bill, dispatching of two lines neatly) and into his groin. It stopped there, and that wasn't enough, so he plucked the bill from Dan's limp hands, took up the last line himself, being sure to clean the plate.

And then it was in his knees, his fingers, his toes, everything feeling like just-opened plasticine, taunt and waiting to be scratched.

And there was no doubt about _anything,_ none at fucking all. He wasn't calm, far from it, but he just didn't care. And that was quite cool, and only a little scary.

*

The first time Carl smoked crack, he was fucking drunk. And it should've been the last time, but of course it wasn't.

Because it smelled like shite, and tasted worse, and it made him feel like crawling out his skin. More so than that time he snorted Ritalin with Kase, more than that time Kevin gave him that fucked-up hash laced with the shit they pickle dead bodies with. 

It was like he wasn't sure whether or not to punch or kiss the person he was sitting next to, and he thought maybe he'd want to do both. And sometimes he did. And of course Pete fucking loved it. 'Course. So most of the time Carl just said no, moved beyond the clump of bodies and settled in with a bottle between his thighs and slow-moving eyes and tried really hard not to care.

*

Then came things Carl can't even remember the names of, things named after girls, like Gina and Polly and Mary. Pretty much anything he could snort, lick, eat, or smoke was sampled and savored.

And then the real girls, girls with names like Trish and Sarah and Brianne, they'd pass him hallucinogen-soaked papers with their tongues, glasses of whiskey with their clawed hands, and he'd take them, nipping at their cheeks and tangling with their fingers.

And Pete, fuck, he'd careen around the room like some cartoon, bottle of something in one hand, clothes half-on and half-off, cigarette spilling ash and smoke between his lips. And a smile, always a fucking smile, for everyone, for no one, for him.

And Carl would watch as Pete gave himself up and away with every press of flesh, every tipped ear, every inhalation of cloudy air. Gave himself away and left nothing behind, nothing for him, nothing for Carl, because Carl wasn't stupid enough to take what he was giving, or want to take what he was giving, because he wanted Pete, yeah, his mate, his friend, his confident. Wanted him whole and there and gleaming and fucking alive. Wanted Pete to keep that inside, not spill it out onto dirty floors. Not laugh it into dirty whores' mouths and pretty boys' laps. Keep it in, let it press out at the world, press out when he touched people who really fucking mattered, like his mom, like his child, like Carl. And that wasn't going to happen any time soon.

And there was nothing Pete could do but to say he was sorry, and isn't that fucking nothing when it comes down to it? Pete, with those moist eyes giving up that look that fucking killed, flayed Carl alive inside, making him feel like a right bastard -- mostly because Carl knew Pete wasn't really sorry, but should be, yeah. Carl wished Pete could muster up the proper display of sheepishness, even just to placate him, but he couldn't, wouldn't, because it wasn't like he kipped off with a car, yeah, it was just a blow job, nothing more, everything less. And then Carl would try to talk, try to warn, try to do something, but then Pete would smile, all shaky-like, his palms to the sky as he licked at some girl's neck, some bloke's fingers on his thighs, saying things like, "Biggles, my dear, why do you care?"


End file.
